


I Don't Need Much to Keep Me Warm

by umadoshi (Ysabet)



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant
Genre: Adopted Sibling Incest, Canon Disabled Character, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, POV First Person, Pre-Canon, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:10:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabet/pseuds/umadoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Knowing my sister, she'd been out in a sweater and a hat and a jacket, but the downpour had probably drenched her to the skin anyway. And she </i>hates<i> being cold.</i></p><p>Set a few years before <i>Feed</i>. Fic contents include rain, hot drinks, and snuggling.</p><p>(The working title was "blatant, unrepentant snuggle fic". It does what it says on the tin.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Need Much to Keep Me Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Filling the "comfort food" square on my cottoncandy_bingo card (on Dreamwidth).
> 
> Title from Tori Amos' "Cloud On My Tongue".

It was weird for me to get home earlier than George. We had about half of our classes together and usually waited around for each other if our days ended at slightly different times. But it was Wednesday, when my last class got out an hour and a half before hers, and she'd decided she needed to hit the library to do some research after she was done, and I hadn't argued when she told me to just leave without her. George has a soft spot for actual books, even though she only owns a couple and does most of her reading digitally; to me it seems like having a weakness for typewriters just because you like the feel of a real keyboard instead of a touchscreen, and there's a _reason_ typewriters belong in museums--which I also don't like much--but whatever.

By the time I'd been home for an hour I regretted not arguing. I'm almost never home alone. Mom and Dad were out at some faculty dinner, and the empty house felt oppressive. I puttered aimlessly downstairs for a while before giving up and retreating to my room to wait for George.

Our bedrooms have actual windows, since we're on the second floor, and with George out I pulled my curtains open for the novelty. That gave me a great view of how the weather was shifting: what had been a heavy mist when I came home was turning into sheets of rain. The sound of it hitting the glass and the roof made me feel a little better. It filled the silence, but unpredictably. Listening to it coming and going with the wind helped occupy the part of my brain that always tries to keep me picking away at something--locks, guns, whatever--for the constant, low-level stimulus.

The downside was that George isn't a fan of rain at the best of times, and it had been cool when I was out, so it must've been bone-chilling by the time she got home a couple hours later. I yanked the curtains closed when I finally heard the front door open, in case she wanted to come into my room. The sun wasn't down yet, and even with the sky overcast, the light from outside would make her eyes ache more than my low-wattage lights.

"Shaun?" she called when she reached her room, not bothering to bang on the door or the wall to get my attention. She probably had her hands full with shedding wet clothes as fast as she could peel them off, and if I were doing anything that kept me from hearing her, it'd mean I wasn't in competition for the bathroom anyway. "I'm hitting the shower."

She doesn't always give me even that much warning, unless we're coming in together and in a race to see who can get stripped down and into the shower faster. She's usually in and out in under five minutes, so there isn't much need.

Except she wasn't. After ten minutes I looked up from the gun I was inspecting--the action hadn't been as smooth as I liked last time I'd had it out--and double-checked the clock. The shower was still running. After fifteen minutes I got worried. After twenty I went and knocked on the bathroom door. "George?" No response, but our water pressure is amazing, and that makes the shower loud. I knocked harder. "Hey, George?"

"Fine!" she yelled back--shorthand for "feel free to come in".

I killed my room lights to keep them from spilling into the bathroom when I opened the door. Our programming for the bathroom lighting is very specific: if George's door opens, the room switches to UV, but the reverse isn't true from my side. If her black lights are on, I have to hit the physical switch or give verbal instructions to swap to white light. I almost never notice; the measures we take to protect her eyes are as much second nature for me as they are for her.

I shut the door behind me quickly to keep from letting a draft in. "You okay?" Our shower enclosure is almost transparent, but I could still barely see her. My eyes adjusted as much as they were going to, enough that I could tell she was just standing there and letting the water stream over her.

"Just cold," she said. "It's freezing out there."

Knowing my sister, she'd been out in a sweater and a hat and a jacket, but the downpour had probably drenched her to the skin anyway. And she _hates_ being cold.

Relieved, I asked, "Tea or cocoa?"

"What?"

I raised my voice to be heard over the water. "I'll go make you something hot, coffee-hating freak. Tea or cocoa?"

"Oh!" George sounded half-surprised, even though of the two of us, I'm the one who's good about making sure we're both fed. I blame it on the fact that she's never been a fifteen-year-old boy and constantly ravenous. Left to her own devices she'll forget entire meals, never mind any drink that isn't her next Coke. "Cocoa."

I ducked back out and headed downstairs. Ten minutes later I had two mugs of cocoa, one extra sweet with a liberal splash of Irish cream and the other with a shot of espresso. By the time I got back George was out of the shower, dried off and moisturized, and bundled into her bathrobe. She was also ensconced in my bed, propped up by two of my pillows. "Make yourself at home," I said, handing her her drink.

"I will, thanks." She wrapped both hands around the mug and flashed me a smile. "Thank you," she repeated, more sincerely.

"Hey, if you freeze to death, I have to pick up the slack. Shove over." I took a deep drink of cocoa, enough that it wouldn't spill if I jostled my mug, and got comfortable next to her. I have more pillows on my bed than she has on hers, for practical reasons. Any kind of sleeping together generally happens in her room, which is a bring-my-own-pillow kind of arrangement; if we're in my bed we're more likely to be just hanging out. Maybe my lighting isn't entirely comfortable for her, but unless she brings her laptop in, it means she's away from work. Even George occasionally sees the need to take a break.

I pushed her sleeve up, shaking my head. She was fresh out of the shower, wrapped in a robe and a blanket, and had a hot drink in her hands, and she _still_ had a faint prickling of goosebumps up her arm. I rubbed my finger over the exposed skin. "Something is very wrong with you."

"Possibly many things." She sipped her cocoa and sighed, not unhappily. "You're slipping me booze?"

"Only a little." Curious, I put a hand under the blanket and touched the top of her foot, which was bare and cold. "You know, when people call you an ice queen, I don't think this is what they mean."

Her lips quirked with amusement. "If we're playing the 'things people call me' drinking game, I'm going to need harder liquor. And I don't think I should get drunk before we do our homework."

"Everyone else in class might appreciate it if you did. It'd level the playing field a little."

George pinched me. I laughed at her. Ritual harassment accomplished, I slung my arm around her shoulders while she started mulling over the topic options for the essays we had to write for our ethics class. I'd already picked mine; I'm happy to go with whatever catches my eye first, which George thinks is akin to throwing darts at the list while blindfolded.

The one time I actually did that--although I used a throwing knife--she took it in stride. Our history teacher, not so much. That was back in high school, which left me in the funny position of spending our junior year coming to class with my properly-licensed firearms while not being allowed to have blades on the premises. There really is no level of ridiculousness bureaucracy won't sink to.

I'd set my empty mug aside by the time she'd narrowed the list of options down to three. I go through hot drinks way faster than she does, due to years of using coffee to pump caffeine into my system as quickly as possible. In contrast, she savored the rest of her drink while I played devil's advocate for her short-listed choices.

Once she'd finally settled on a topic, I smoothed her bangs back off her face. That one touch made her shift all the focus she'd been giving our assignment to me instead, fast enough that I couldn't have kept the delight out of my smile if I'd tried. I definitely get why some people find it disconcerting to suddenly be under the full weight of her attention, but I thrive under it. I always have.

"What?" she asked.

I learned when we were kids not to drop hints when I want something; George picks up on them just fine, but it's too close to manipulation for her taste. She's on board with manipulating other people if it seems appropriate, but she won't do it with me and has never liked me doing it with her.

"I could use snuggling," I said. "How about you?"

"You could _always_ use snuggling." She finished the last of her cocoa, licked a trace of it off her lips, and set her mug beside mine on the night table. "Aren't you ever scared the other Irwins'll find out you're a giant teddy bear?"

"Like you're going to blab? It'd hurt your reputation more than mine."

"Only if it were true in my case." She settled against my side as she spoke, head on my shoulder and an arm almost haphazardly dropped across my chest. I turned a little so I could get both arms around her, then let her adjust me until she was comfortable.

"No one but you would care about the distinction, since you snuggle _exactly_ as much as I do," I told her.

"Do you want cuddles or not?" she asked, but the implied threat was empty. She'd already made herself too thoroughly at home in my arms, idly reaching under my shirt to steal more warmth.

We've spent our entire lives curling up around each other that way, when no one could see. In our early teens, if our parents were out, we used to share Dad's old recliner while we watched movies in the living room, with George practically on top of me so we could both fit. If she came as close to kissing me back then as I came to kissing her, it's a miracle we didn't start making out when we were closer to twelve than sixteen.

Spending time being quiet and cozy with her is always one of my favorite things, whether or not we segue into something else. George isn't good at mental idleness, so sometimes it doesn't last for long; once she gets fidgety I usually shoo her away, even if she's willing to stay put longer. Other times she compromises by dictating whatever's on her mind into one of the dozen or so recording devices she has lying around, which is pleasant in its own way--I love the sound of her voice, and if I lie with my head against her chest while she says things she's not expecting me to pay attention to, it's a treat in its own right.

But sometimes she's content to lie quietly with me for as long as I want to, talking a little now and then to check in, and that seemed to be the mood she was in. We lay tangled up together and listened to the rain for long enough that we were both a little drowsy by the time she started kissing me, soft and undemanding. We wound up on our sides, her head resting on my arm while we made out in that idle way that's entirely its own thing, instead of a prelude to sex. It was comfortable and just... _good_. Kissing her was good. Holding her all snuggled up against me was good. And she was warm now--both warm to my touch and not shivering. I shut my eyes and smiled into the kiss.

"Hmm?" George murmured.

I stroked the backs of my fingers along her cheek before answering. "I'm not glad you got chilled like that, but this is nice."

"It is." There was a lazy relaxation in her voice that I don't hear nearly often enough, with how hard she tends to push herself.

Inevitably, the sound of the garage door opening interrupted us. George grumbled under her breath and repositioned herself so she was mostly lying on me, chin in her hands. Mischief tugged at the corner of her mouth. "What?" I asked.

"God, you're so suspicious."

"You have me well trained."

"Hmph." She rolled back off me and sat up, tilting her head in the way that meant she expected me to follow her lead. I did; joking about being well trained doesn't mean it's not true, and ninety percent of reading George means reading her body language, not her face. "I guess we should go put in an appearance," she said.

"Guess so." From downstairs, I could hear the sound of the door leading to the garage opening and closing. One parent was in the house. Unlike us, they follow the rules and come in separately. What kind of marriage is that?

Then George had a hand behind my head and was kissing me like she had every intention of pushing me right back down on the bed, which was obviously _not_ about to happen. My body, already completely tuned to hers and missing the warmth of her, didn't know or care about the latter detail.

"Hey--" I protested, utterly failing to make it sound like a real complaint.

"Shush."

I shut up and concentrated on giving back as good as I was getting, which was pretty damn good. "You? Are evil," I said when she finally let go. Unperturbed, she licked her lips the same way she had after drinking her cocoa. "Evil incarnate."

"How is giving you an IOU evil?" She got to her feet, grinning at the way I was looking at her. "You're just easy."

I gave her the strongest glower I could muster--which wasn't saying much--as I flopped down again. "You _love_ that I'm easy for you."

"I do," she said, agreeable as you please.

"Go put some damn clothes on, temptress." She arched a brow at me over her sunglasses, glancing down at herself: her bathrobe was half open, but she was wearing a tank top and pajama pants underneath. "Looking snuggly counts as temptation."

"I think you can resist."

"Yeah, but I don't want to."

George rewarded my goading by leaning back over me at an angle that just _happened_ to give me a beautiful look down her top, and said, with her mouth less than an inch from mine, "That's why it's called 'temptation', dumbass."

It took honest effort not to close that gap. "Thanks for the clarification."

"Any time." She dropped her head, kissed my lower lip, and headed for her room to get changed into something she was willing to wear in front of our parents. "See you downstairs."


End file.
